


Strange Bedfellows

by The_Wavesinger



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Blood, Emotional Baggage, Extra Treat, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Night, Post-Darkening of Valinor, Trick or Treat: Chocolate Box
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-25 13:21:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12532404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/pseuds/The_Wavesinger
Summary: Indis and Nerdanel and a conversation, in Valinor after the Darkening.





	Strange Bedfellows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Filigranka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/gifts).



> Quenya names:  
> Arafinwë = Finarfin  
> Fëanáro = Fëanor

“We have grown used to the dark,” Indis says to Nerdanel as they walk through the streets of Tirion, and her voice echoes across the empty spaces, bouncing off cobblestones.

Indis had not noticed this adjustment before; she had been too busy. But now that Arafinwë has returned ( _with his tail beneath his legs_ , some uncharitable part of her, born of bitterness, thinks, but she quickly tamps down on the thought), she has time on her hands, time to notice details that had slipped by her while she was busy herding a people torn apart by death and Oaths into some semblance of unity and order.

And time means room for thought.

She digs her fingernails into her arms, sharp enough that she feels wetness. (It may be blood, it may not be. The lamp Nerdanel is holding is one of the dimmer ones—there are those who have more need of light than them, and most of the brighter palace lamps were given away some time ago.) “I—”

But she falls silent. Whatever words she had been meaning to say die on her tongue as Nerdanel pulls her closer as they pass a huddled group of people, the only sign of life in the entire city.

Their heads bent are together, and Indis hears the hum of hushed voices from a few paces away. The light of Nerdanel's lamp is not enough to show their faces, and their own lamp they have angled carefully so that only the backs of their heads are illuminated.

A flash of blue on a scabbard, and a familiar seal. Arafinwë's people, then, still tight-lipped about the horrors Indis knows they must have seen. When they see Indis and Nerdanel (and they cannot hide who they are; their hair alone would give them away if the cut of their clothes and the path they walk, to the Palace and the heart of the city, did not), they shrink away.

Indis would like to think it is respect.

(She knows better than to lie to herself, thought. It is _not_ respect. Fear, maybe, anger, distrust, even an acknowledgement that despite everything, she is still the Queen. Not respect, thought. It is too soon, yet, for respect.)

Beside her, Nerdanel is tense. If few respect Indis, now, Nerdanel—

Nerdanel stands alone. The _looks_ they got as they walked past were mostly for her. Even those of the Noldor who stayed behind have heard, by now, of Alqualondë, and the name _Fëanáro_ is taboo among the residents of Tirion. Even now, far away again from any sign of life, she bears the weight of actions in which she had little part.

The silence between Nerdanel is uncomfortable, now, a stillness that bears a weight it had not before. “Why do you think?”

“Shut up.”

And Nerdanel speaks perfectly evenly, but Indis knows that this is an indication of nothing. They are both unsettled and angry, and she should not fan the flames, but. “Nerdanel—”

“I wish,” Nerdanel says lowly, interrupting her, “That you had never married Finwë.”

Indis does not reply. What can she say? “I wish I had never _seen_ him”? There is no use in that kind of thought, now.

And, too, she loved him, once. She cannot forget that, no matter how hard she tries.

“Say something!” Nerdanel's voice is fierce, now, anger coating her words. The hand not holding the lamp slashes through the air in a sharp gesture, Fëanáro's rings conspicuously absent from the calloused fingers.

“I am not the only one who should never have married. I am not the only one who bears blame in _this_.” She gestures at the deserted city around them, stripped of life and joy, fury roaring to life almost out of nowhere as she speaks. “If I am at fault, you are, too, Nerdanel.”

Nerdanel drops the lamp.

It becomes completely dark.

Indis hears the sharp sound of thousands of shattering shards of glass pattering across the cobblestones; one piece flies up (and at angle, she thinks, and it must be large, but without light, they cannot see) and hits Indis, leaving a dull, throbbing pain across her forearm. She cannot help but gasp at the sudden sensation.

Nerdanel steps forward, and the glass crunches under her feet. “Indis? Are you alright?”

Indis nods. Then, remembering that Nerdanel cannot see her (yet—Indis' eyes are adjusting even now to the starlight, and no doubt the same is true for Nerdanel). “A piece of the glass hit me, but it does not appear to have left a deep wound.”

“Let me see.”

And that is a tone Indis knows. There is no use in arguing; she stretches her arm out for Nerdanel to grasp, feels Nerdanel's hands running across it. (A sudden shiver runs through her from the points where Nerdanel touches her to the tips of her fingers and toes. Nerdanel's hands are _cold_.)

When Nerdanel reaches the wound, she presses down. _Hard_.

It _hurts_. It feels as if the glass shard is being driven through her arm, a hot, angry pain radiating from where Nerdanel touches her. And another sensation, heat spreading through her, her core tightening in anticipation.

When Nerdanel lifts her hand (sweet relief, but also disappointment, for Indis craves the sharpness of the pain), it is dripping with blood. Not deep red (not the colour the water would have been at Alqualondë) but dark and with a silver sheen in the dim starlight.

The blood-soaked fingers are pressed against Indis' lips and she licks (because it is Nerdanel, and because it is better, for both of them, to lick her blood off Nerdanel's fingers than to embrace Nerdanel like she wants to). The coppery tang is sharp and almost pleasant; she thinks vaguely that she could grow fond of the taste. And the weight of Nerdanel's fingers against her tongue is—settling.

But Nerdanel removes her fingers. (Indis realizes, with a start, that she has licked them clean.) Then she pulls Indis close to her with her nails digging into the still-bleeding wound, a mockery of an embrace. “It is not either of our faults. Not yours, not mine.”

Indis knows that, and yet cannot make herself believe its truth (cannot make Nerdanel believe its truth). In lieu of a response, she reaches up and kisses Nerdanel.

The kiss tastes of defeat, and Indis presses her lips harder against Nerdanel's to hold back the tears.


End file.
